A.D. 1849-1853
THE FIRST GREAT SORROW, AND THE FIRST BOOK
It must have been at about this time that Charlotte became increasingly anxious for more of definite outdoor work among the poor. Her wish was to be allowed to visit in the Marylebone Workhouse; but difficulties for a while barred her way. Mr. Tucker objected strongly, fearing the risk of infectious diseases for his daughters; and no doubt the risk in those days was far greater than in these, considering the then condition of Workhouses generally.
So long as permission was refused, Charlotte seems to have contented herself with the simple duties of home-life. She was not one who would restlessly fight for and insist upon her own way at all costs, under the plea of doing what was right. Rather, one may be sure, she counted the prohibition as in itself sufficient indication of the Divine Will. However, while submitting, she probably used from time to time some little pressure to bring about another state of things; and somewhere about the beginning of 1851 her parents’ ‘reluctant consent’ was, we are told, at length given. From that time she and Fanny visited regularly in the Workhouse.
In 1849 Charlotte’s eldest sister, Sibella, was married to the Rev. Frederick Hamilton, for some time Curate to Mr. Garnier, the Vicar of Holy Trinity Church, which they all regularly attended. Mr. Garnier and his wife, Lady[84] Caroline, were especial friends of Charlotte, through many a long year. Thus the first break in the charmed circle of sisters was made; and Fanny was now ‘Miss Tucker,’ Charlotte being the second home-daughter.
Until the spring of 1850 Mr. Tucker kept his health and vigour to a marvellous extent for a man eighty years old,—for one too who had worked more or less hard through life from the age of fourteen or fifteen. He still attended to his India House business, not seeming to find it too much for his strength; and in the April of that year, after making a speech in Court, he was congratulated by a brother-Director upon the force and energy with which he had spoken. ‘Ah,’ he replied, ‘it is only the last flicker of the taper before it goes out.’
No one had noticed aught to be wrong with him, but perhaps he had himself been conscious of failing power. Soon afterwards a sharp attack of fever and inflammation laid him low, and most serious fears for his life were felt. It was a time of terrible suspense to his own family; not least so to Charlotte, who had always loved him with an intense devotion. Probably few fathers are quite so devotedly beloved as was old Mr. Tucker; but not many men, and especially not many men of his years, can throw themselves into the interests and amusements of their children, as he was able to do.
They had till then hardly realised how suddenly the call might come. As his biographer says, he had been always ‘so full of life, there had been so much activity of body, so much energy of mind, so much elasticity of spirit, that they had never associated with all this vitality a thought of the stillness of death.’ Now, without warning, the foe was at their very door; and the shadow of his great danger weighed heavily upon them all.
In answer to many prayers he was given back to them again, just for a little while. But they could never quite[85] forget how nearly he had been taken from them, how unexpectedly the great separation might come.
Another event of 1850 was the marriage of Charlotte’s brother, William Tucker, at Brussels. It came almost immediately upon Mr. Tucker’s rally from his severe illness; and Charlotte had the pleasure of being taken to Brussels for the wedding by her brother, St. George Tucker, then home for a short time from India. It would be interesting to know her first impressions of the Continent, but not many letters of this date are available. The two which follow are among the last belonging to her unshadowed younger life, before the true meaning of loss and sorrow had dawned upon her. One black cloud had gathered and dispersed; but it was soon to roll up again; and then the storm would break.
‘Oct. 3, 1850.
‘Dearest Laura,—We have finished the volume of stories which we were reading—which by the way resembled the pottles of strawberries sold in the streets, capital at the beginning, but as one gets further on, miserably inferior—and now Fanny has gone to her dear Will-making, so I keep her pen in company by writing to you. I soon knocked off my Will, and we have just the same sum to dispose of, but her large sheets of paper are not covered yet.
‘Now what shall I write to you about, dear—for we write so often that it is impossible that we should often have much to write about? The sun shines one day, and does not shine another; the sea is rough one morning and calm the next. I may have to follow the style of Letitia in her well-known note, “sometimes we pass Fummity, and sometimes we do not.” Things go on quietly, nothing changed but my half-sovereign. I had to buy new ribbons for Letitia to-day, and fear that I shall have to supply the children with fresh gloves.
‘I have been reading about our poor friend, the first of the Blacks, to-day; and it appears that his character was very fairly drawn by Miss Martineau. I was glad to know a little about the after doings in Hayti, and find that Dessalines—that fierce fellow, husband of Theresa—was made first Emperor, and killed in about two years. He was a great savage, but his wife an amiable lady. Then came[86] King Henri I.—our friend Christopher the Cook—who was king at the time that my informant wrote, that is to say, in 1819. A famous king he seems to be, or have been, with a good palace, standing army of 25,000 men kept in strict discipline, a hereditary aristocracy—all of the colour of coal—and ecclesiastical establishment. He was considered in person very much like King George III.—barring complexion, I suppose—and, in short, that part of Hayti which owned him for king seemed in a very flourishing condition in 1819.
‘Do you remember the name of Thaurepas (?), the blacky General who weakly surrendered his post to the French? What do you think the grateful Monsieurs did to him? Nailed epaulettes on his shoulders and a cocked hat on his head, and then threw him with his wife and children into the sea! Would one believe such things of men in the 19th century? I should like to know something of the present state of Hayti, and whether the throne is filled by a son of Henri I., for I suppose that Christopher is hardly living still. If he were, would you not like to have his autograph?
‘I have told you all this about Hayti, because I thought that, like myself, you would be pleased to know what really became of the characters in Miss Martineau’s Romance, and one seldom meets with a book which throws any light upon such an out-of-the-way subject.’
‘Oct. 18, 1850.
‘Dearest Laura,—We have been luxuriating in the letters from Paris.... All things look so bright and joyous! I have twice sung “The World is so Bright” to-day con amore, and my heart is so lightsome that I could dance. I do not think that I have once seen precious Father dull since my return. He desires me to say that he cannot quite countenance a visit to Lebanon. It is rather too far, and Lord Ellesmere was very ill on his way thither; so dear —— must give up her Blackbeard, and content herself with Sir Peter. Now Mamma is reading St. George’s note. Papa is smiling away,—his dear lips apart. He looks so nice in Clara’s beautiful cap!
‘Henry thinks so much of you, dear. He says that you are a sweet girl, and that he loves you extremely. I cannot tell you all the kind things he says of you....
‘We are such a comfortable party, and our loved absent ones help to make us more so.... This is a very disconnected sort of note, a sort of patchwork, for my ears are as much employed as my hand, and I have every now and then a message to darn in,—then, O my chilblains! But I am determined to complain of nothing, for I am[87] so overloaded with blessings. Dearest Parents are just going out. The weather is delicious. The world is so bright, the world is so fair! Yes, even now, when she has only a wreath of dahlias, and decks herself in yellow like the sweet little Blossom!...
‘I should like to think that our dear trio are enjoying themselves as much at Paris as I am at home. I hope and trust that we may all have such a happy winter together, when “Love’s shining circlet” has all its gems complete except the dear Indian absentees.’
This was written in the autumn following Mr. Tucker’s dangerous illness. After a long and tedious convalescence, his health had steadily improved through the summer months, and during the autumn he seemed to be almost himself again,—able to walk out regularly, able to read much and thoroughly to enjoy being read to by his wife and daughters. In the evenings he would delight in their music, varied by merry talk and by an occasional rubber of whist.
With the coming of winter acute neuralgic pains took possession of him; and though some little improvement was seen with the advent of spring, it was not permanent. In the end of May 1851 he was taken to Brighton for a few days’ change; after which he became worse and then again better. Amid these fluctuations, which included at times very severe suffering, his manly courage and patience were never known to fail.
On the tenth of June he seemed so far improved as to talk of going next day to the India House, for the Wednesday’s Council. The Doctor strongly opposed this; and Mr. Tucker went instead to a Flower-Show, with his daughters. For two days afterward he seemed particularly well. On Friday night there was no apparent change for the worse; and his usual tender good-night to them all had in it no shadow of approaching calamity.
But the end was at hand. Before morning sharp illness[88] had seized upon him; and before twelve o’clock he had passed away.
It was a heavy blow to all who knew him; above all to his wife and children. He had been the very life of the house, the very spring of home-brightness. Charlotte’s little niece, Bella Frances, daughter of the elder brother, Henry Carre Tucker, came to spend her first English holidays in the house, not long after Mr. Tucker’s death, and she found the whole family ‘plunged in gloom,’—Charlotte Tucker being exceedingly sad and grave. The only one, indeed, of the whole party who was able to speak cheerfully was Laura. It is probable that Laura had at that date a dawning outside interest in her life, not possessed by any of the others, which may have enabled her to bear up somewhat better than they could.
Many months earlier, after the sharp illness of the preceding year, Mr. Tucker had written a letter to all his children, thanking them for their ‘late unwearied and devoted attentions’ to him. After desiring them ‘not to give way to strong emotions,’ he had gone on to say,—‘I have reached a very advanced age, and must be prepared for a change. Old age has its infirmities and suffering, and a prolonged existence is not to be desired. Your care should now be to comfort and console your beloved mother, who has been everything to me and everything to you all. I trust that she will not leave this house, in which we have all enjoyed so much happiness; and I feel assured that you will all tenderly watch over her, and contribute by every means in your power to her future comfort.’
This wish was fulfilled. Mrs. Tucker never did leave No. 3 Upper Portland Place, except of course for necessary change. It remained her home, and the home of her daughters, from the year 1851, when her husband died, until her own death in the year 1869.
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How much of life’s sunshine had been swept out of Charlotte’s life by the loss of her Father, it is perhaps impossible for any one to estimate who did not personally know Mr. Tucker. Not that all her sunshine had departed! Apart from her own inherent elasticity of spirit, she was devotedly attached to her Mother; and she had still the tender and satisfying companionship of Laura.
That while deeply saddened, she was not crushed, is shown by the following letter to her little niece, Bella F. Tucker, dated August 9, 1851:—
‘The sun has been shining so beautifully lately, and the reapers have been busy in the fields. It is a sight to warm the heart, to see the yellow sheaves covering the land, and we should bless God for an abundant harvest. There is a clover-field near us, and it looks like a beautiful carpet of lilac and green. I was calculating that there must be more than two million blossoms in that one field; and each blossom may be perhaps the home of many insects.... Then what is that field compared to all England, or England to Europe, or Europe to the whole world? Neither your little head, nor the wisest man’s, can imagine how many blossoms and how many insects there are on this great globe,—it makes one almost giddy to think of it,—and then to consider that all the world itself is only like a speck in God’s Creation, that there are said to be eighty millions of fixed stars, each of which has very likely worlds moving round it. And God made all. How very great and wonderful He must be! It seems surprising that He should care for every one on this little ball,—how much more astonishing that He should have condescended to come and live upon it, to have appeared as a feeble Child in one of the worlds that He had made, and then actually to die, like one of the creatures that He had formed! Is not God’s power wonderful, and His love more wonderful still?
‘When you look at the bright blue sky, do you never long to fly up like the birds,—no, much higher than the birds can fly, to your Home, to your Father which is in Heaven? I hope that time may come, sweet Bella, but now is the time to prepare. I sometimes think that this life is our school-time. We are now to learn lessons of faith and patience and love. When our education is finished we shall be allowed to go Home; and Death will be the gentle Messenger[90] to say,—“Your Heavenly Father sends for you; come and join your loved ones who have gone before. O that will be joyful, when we meet to part no more!”’
There is a tone of quiet sadness running through the letter, in marked contrast with those joyous epistles to her sister Laura quoted earlier in this chapter. The world could never again be to her ‘so bright, so fair!’ as in the days when her Father was still upon earth. No doubt as time went on the buoyancy of her temperament reasserted itself; but life was no longer unshadowed; and other troubles soon followed.
One of these must certainly have been the marriage of her sister Laura, though no letters are at hand to show what she felt. Mr. Otho Hamilton, elder brother to the Rev. Frederick Hamilton, who had married Charlotte’s eldest sister, sought Laura’s hand; and he was accepted.
Not entirely without hesitation. Perhaps few girls can say, or ought to say, ‘Yes’ at once, without time for consideration. When the offer came, Laura’s first impulse was, naturally, to go to her Mother for advice; her second impulse was to go to her friend-sister. It is not hard to realise what the thought must have been to Charlotte of losing this dearly-loved companion,—her room-mate and the constant sharer of her thoughts and interests from very infancy; nor is it difficult to believe how bravely she would put aside the recollection of herself, viewing the question from Laura’s standpoint alone. It must, however, be remembered that Charlotte was romantically enthusiastic on the subject of others’ engagements, and was through life ardently interested in the marriages of her friends. In the present case her knowledge of how highly her Father had thought of Mr. Hamilton would be an additional incentive to put no obstacle in the way. It seems that Laura’s hesitation had arisen, not from any doubt as to her own feelings, but simply from a desire to[91] be sure of her duty. The engagement took place; and on the 19th of October 1852, Laura Tucker became Mrs. Hamilton. So another leaf was turned in the story of Charlotte’s life.
And now, in the very midst of these changes and losses arose a new interest. Hitherto, Charlotte had written a good deal, but she had never published, perhaps had never even thought of publishing. What first led her to adopt the style of fiction, by which she was soon to become known, it is possible at least to conjecture. In 1850, as we have seen, she wrote another of her merry plays, full of fun and humour. Now, suddenly, she seems to have plunged into the line of children’s stories, having each a very prominent ‘purpose,’—her earliest being The Claremont Tales. It may be that the shock of her first great sorrow, the death of Mr. Tucker, making her to realise intensely the shortness of life on earth, and the supreme weight of things unseen, had the effect of turning her mind with a new energy to the thought of doing good by means of her pen. It may be also that, now he was gone for whom and with whom she had written her plays, all zest in that direction was gone with him, and the gift of writing, like a river dammed up in one direction and forced to turn elsewhere, sought naturally a fresh outlet,—an outlet with which there should be no overpoweringly sad associations. Moreover, the home-circle was no longer what it had been. Two of the sisters, to whom she had read her plays, were gone; and with the changed order of life came a new order of writing.
Exactly when she began or finished The Claremont Tales is not known. With her usual reserve she at first said nothing about the completed MS.—beyond, at all events, reading the stories to the children. Probably she felt doubtful about her own venture; and some little time seems to have passed before she showed it to her Mother.[92] Mrs. Tucker was much delighted with the attempt, said at once that it ought to be published, and insisted on action being taken.
So, on November 19, 1851, the MS. was sent to Messrs. W. and R. Chambers, with the accompanying letter:—
‘Sir,—It has for some time been my anxious desire to add my mite to the Treasury of useful literature, which you have opened to the young as well as the old.
‘The Tales which I now venture to offer to you for publication were originally composed for young children under my own charge, and were listened to with an appearance of interest, which gives me hopes that they may meet with no unfavourable reception from others of the same tender years.
‘I ask for no earthly remuneration; my position in life renders me independent of any exertions of my own; I pray but for God’s blessing upon my attempts to instruct His lambs in the things which concern their everlasting welfare; and deeply gratified should I feel, were my little work to be classed among the numerous valuable publications which you have already given to the world.
‘The Tales might be printed separately, as each forms a complete story, though all are united by connecting links.’
The date is given, but no name and no address; and a letter more quaintly stiff and unbusiness-like can surely never have won a Publisher’s smile. To return the MS. to herself, if disapproved of, was not possible; and, as it happened, The Claremont Tales did not belong to the class of publications undertaken by Messrs. Chambers. Very kindly, however, they passed it on to the house of Messrs. Gall and Inglis; and by them the little book was brought out. One can imagine how eagerly Charlotte, while preserving her strict incognita, must have watched for the possible appearance of her Tales, and how delighted she would be to see the name advertised. When this occurred, she wrote again—
‘May 24, 1853.
‘A. L. O. E. presents her compliments to Messrs. Gall and Inglis, and, admiring the elegant form in which they have presented The[93] Claremont Tales to the public, is happy to offer to them for publication the accompanying volume of poems,—asking no further remuneration than 20 copies of the work, when printed, for gratuitous distribution. A. L. O. E. proposes sending a few copies of her poems to the principal Reviews, as a means of extending their circulation.
‘A. L. O. E. would be glad to know whether Messrs. Gall and Inglis propose adopting her suggestion of printing some or all of The Claremont Tales in a very cheap form, for distribution amongst poor children, Ragged Schools, etc.
‘Any communication will be received by the Authoress, if addressed to—“Miss Aloe; care of Miss Lanzun; S——; Middlesex.”
‘P.S.—Miss —— would much like to know whether The Claremont Tales were first placed in the hands of Messrs. Gall and Inglis by Messrs. Chambers, to whom she originally sent them; and whether Messrs. Gall and Inglis have any professional connection with those Publishers, so distinguished in the field of literature. Should Messrs. Gall and Inglis not wish themselves to undertake the publication of a volume of poetry, they are at perfect liberty to submit the work to Messrs. Chambers. An early answer will oblige.’
Three months later comes another letter, still further relaxing her secrecy, and still on the subject of the ‘volume of poems’:—
‘August 6, 1853.
‘Miss C. M. Tucker presents her compliments to Mr. Inglis, and begs to acknowledge the receipt this morning of his obliging communication to Miss A. L. O. E., which nom de guerre, in compliance with his wish, and in reliance on his promise to preserve her incognita, she now exchanges for her own.
‘Miss C. M. Tucker is now at the seaside, and is therefore unable personally to communicate with Mr. Inglis. She requests, however, that he will continue to direct any letters to S——, to the care of Miss Lanzun.
‘Miss C. M. Tucker is much pleased to learn that her little work has been favourably received in America. She will be very happy to write such an addition to The Fortress, as may make it equal in length to its companion tales.
‘As Mr. Inglis’ objection to publishing The White Shroud, etc., seems only to rest upon the shortness of the poems, Miss C. M. Tucker would have no objection to sending a larger book of her poetry, from which Mr. Inglis might select what he thought likely[94] to please the public. Miss C. M. Tucker has written an Epic on the eventful Life of St. Paul, and a variety of other pieces. Would Mr. Inglis wish them forwarded to Scotland, or to his present address in London? Miss C. M. Tucker herself selected The White Shroud, as she thought it one of those most likely to be popular, and perhaps most calculated to be useful. The name might attract readers, who would not glance at what appeared from its title to be exclusively religious. It would also be well adapted for illustration; but that Miss C. M. Tucker leaves entirely to the taste and judgment of Messrs. Gall and Inglis, only suggesting that perhaps the commencement of winter might be a favourable time for such a work of Fancy to make its appearance, when it might take its place among the elegant little volumes designed for Christmas remembrances.’
Others were disposed to take a different view as to the peculiar attractiveness of such a name as The White Shroud, and when the volume was published it came out as Glimpses of the Unseen.
A first interview between Charlotte and one of her Publishers, recalled by some of the family, probably took place at about this date, or not very long afterwards. She is said to have been shy on seeing him, though not commonly supposed to suffer from shyness. In any case it is to be hoped that few Authors are, at first starting, so absolutely convinced of their own powers as not to go through certain twinges of bashfulness.
One copy of The Claremont Tales was sent out to her brother, Mr. St. George Tucker, who was again in India, and had recently gone to Azimgurh. When the book arrived, he sat up reading it until past one o’clock in the morning; no small compliment to a young Author. He then despatched a messenger on horseback to Benares, with the volume,—a ride of sixty miles,—that his brother, Mr. Henry Carre Tucker, might with all speed enjoy the same pleasure. Charlotte, hearing this through her Mother, was not a little gratified.
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Thenceforth Charlotte went steadily in for Authorship. Volume after volume flowed from her fertile pen; most of them for children; many of them exceedingly amusing; all of them definitely designed to teach something. One is rather disposed to fancy that in the writing of these books there may have been, in the beginning, something of a struggle. Charlotte was by nature ambitious; and her literary gift was considerable; and some of its potentialities appear to have been sacrificed to her ardent desire for usefulness. Whether she ever could or would have made her mark in any of the higher walks of literature is a question which could only have been decided by actual experiment; but at least she must have felt it to lie within the bounds of possibility. Some people may think that her desire for usefulness was a little too ardent in its manifestation, since it led to so extremely didactic a mode of writing as that of many among her books. No one can deny that some of the said volumes do contain a large amount of direct ‘preaching’; not merely of life-lessons, interwoven with the story in such wise that the one could not be read and the other missed, but rather of little sermons so alternating with the story that a child might read the latter and skip the former. Probably, most children, when reading to themselves, did follow this plan. Directness to a fault was, however, a leading characteristic of Charlotte all through life. The same tendency,—many would say in plain terms, the same mistake—is apparent in the later years of her Indian work, in the mode of her Zenana teaching.
With respect to her writings, nothing is more impossible than to gauge correctly the amount of comparative good worked in any age, by different books or different styles of composition. That which makes the most stir, that which has the greatest apparent success, is by no means[96] always the most wide in its influence. Some of us may be inclined to think that A. L. O. E. might have reached a larger circle, might have gained a more extensive influence, if she had less anxiously pressed so very much didactic talk into her tales,—if too she had more studiously cultivated her own dramatic instincts, and had more closely studied human nature. All this we are quite at liberty to believe. For the question as to ‘doing good’ through a book does not rest upon the amount of religious teaching which may be packed into a given number of printed pages, but rather upon the force with which a certain lesson is presented, with or without many words. There is no especial power in an abundance of words; rather the reverse!
But the main gist of the matter as regarded Charlotte herself lies outside all these questions. It is found in the simple fact that she determinately stamped down her own personal ambitions, and bent her powers with a most single heart to this task of ‘doing good’; that she resolutely yielded herself and her gifts to the Service of her Heavenly Father, desiring only that His Name might be honoured in what she undertook. Whether she always carried out this aim in the wisest manner is a secondary consideration. From the literary and artistic point of view, one may say that she undoubtedly did make some mistakes. From the standpoint of a simple desire to do good, one may question whether she could not have done yet more good by a different style of writing. But with regard to the purity and earnestness of her desire, with regard to the putting aside of personal ambitions, with regard to the single-heartedness of her aims, there can be no two opinions. And He who looks on the heart, He who gauges our actions not by results but by the motives which prompt them,—He, we may well believe, honoured His servant for her faithful work in His Service.
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Nor must we ignore the measure of marked success which she certainly had, if one may judge from the speed with which her books came out, and the demand which apparently existed for them. Even in her most didactic tales there are keen and witty touches, and droll descriptions. For ‘teaching’ purposes her boys may sometimes converse together as boys never do converse; but none the less those boys are real, and they recur in after years to the memory as only living people or vivid creations ever do recur. In some of her rather higher flights, such as Pride and his Prisoners, are to be found stirring scenes, drawn with dramatic power.
One thing should be noted: the curiously allegorical or symbolical style of thought which was natural to her.
It did not appear in the girlish dramatic efforts,—unless in the direction of a perpetual play upon words,—but in her published books it developed speedily. This was remarkable in her; not because of any peculiar result from it in England, but because of its very peculiar adaptation to Indian needs. One may almost think of her authorship in England as mainly a long preparation for her Indian toil; the continuous practice in habits of imagery and allegory, by no means especially suited to our Western minds, gradually fitting her to deal with the Oriental mind, little as she yet dreamt of any such destination for herself. All these years, without knowing it, she was waiting for and was working upward to ‘the Crown of her Life,’ as it may be termed; those eighteen years in the Panjab. All these years she was being prepared and made ready, till she should be as a ‘sharpened instrument’ in the Hand of her Master, fitted for the work which He would give her to do.
Among the many volumes published during the first fifteen or twenty years of authorship were the following:—The Giant-Killer, The Roby Family, The Young Pilgrim,[98] History of a Needle, and Rambles of a Rat, before 1858; Flora, The Mine, Precepts in Practice, Idols in the Heart, and Whispering Unseen, before 1860; Pride and his Prisoners, The Shepherd of Bethlehem, My Neighbour’s Shoes, War and Peace, Light in the Robber’s Cave, and The Silver Casket, before 1864. A trio of volumes appeared in succession, the first of which she wrote at her Mother’s suggestion,—Exiles in Babylon, Rescued from Egypt, and Triumph of Midian. Another trio, coming in due course,—Fairy Know-a-Bit, Parliament in the Playroom, and The Crown of Success,—were bright little books, containing a good deal of useful information. Besides these were published at intervals House Beautiful, Living Jewels, Castle of Carlmont, Hebrew Heroes, Claudia, Cyril Ashley, The Lady of Provence, The Wreath of Smoke, and very many others.
One of the most strongly allegorical of her earlier works was The Giant-Killer; and in that little book she no doubt made free use of her own experiences.
It is easy to believe that she must have had many a hard battle with Giant Sloth, before she gained the habit of always rising at six o’clock in the morning, a habit persevered in through life. Again, one of her eager and impulsive temperament could not have been naturally free from a clinging to her own way, and from a certain vigorous self-seeking; and many a bitter conflict must have been gone through, before friends could, with an all but unanimous voice, speak of hers as a peculiarly unselfish character. In the struggles of Fides to get out of the Pit of Selfishness, we may read between the lines of Charlotte’s girlish battlings.
Even more, in the fight with Giant Pride we seem to see her hardest tussle of all, and the mode in which victory came to her. Giant Pride’s assumed name of ‘High Spirit,’ his hatred of Meanness, Gluttony, Cowardice, and[99] Untruth, are all an echo of parts of herself. The polishing of the darkened gold of her Will she had long known in the small unavoidable frictions of everyday life; and the plunging of that Will into furnace-heat, and the straightening of its crookedness by means of heavy successive blows, she had begun to know in the death of her dear Father, and would soon know more fully through other sorrows coming after. But many more than three blows were needed for the shapening of Charlotte Tucker’s Will. She may have dreamt when she wrote the book that three would be enough, and that the King’s call to Fides might in her case be soon repeated. She little knew the long years of toil and patience which stretched far ahead.
A tiny glimpse of the daily fighting, which she like all others had to go through, may be seen in the succeeding letter, written to her sister, Laura, a year or two before the death of old Mr. Tucker:—
‘I obeyed you in putting your note into the fire, after twice perusing it; but it seemed a shame so to destroy what was so sweet. How little you and I have been with each other lately, yet I do not think that we love one another one particle the less,—I think that I can answer for myself at least. May God prosper your humble efforts, my sweet Laura. I enter into all your feelings....
‘I do not like to overload dear Bella with advice. It appears almost presumptuous from a younger sister; but I threw in my word now and then. But what am I?... I fear that I have been peevish with —— to-day. I feel discontented with myself, and need your prayers.’